


Claiming Victory

by kiwikiwi



Category: Tales of the Abyss
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-13
Updated: 2009-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 15:26:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwikiwi/pseuds/kiwikiwi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: <i>Duke Fabre/Count Gardios, Death; Duke Fabre claims victory on the battlefield.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Claiming Victory

Duke Fabre smirked in triumph, staring down at the man sprawled in the dirt at his feet. He'd won. Count Gardios glared up at him, and though it was full of both heat and anger, it lacked any real threat -- the Count was splayed on his back, innumerable cuts decorating his limbs and torso, his clothes stained in patchy red and brown where blood had seeped through and was beginning to dry. From the awkward angle at which one of the Count's legs was canted out, it was possible it was broken-- most likely the result of one of the sweeping strokes of the Duke's broadsword that had finally ended this fight.

Count Gardios was an admirable fighter, and incredibly agile; the nimble flips and complicated footwork of whatever sword style he was using was effective -- an exceedingly annoying to try and defend against -- but was, for a long, drawn out fight such as they'd had, inefficient. The Count had clearly tired himself out long before Duke Fabre, whose contained, solid stance and calculated sword strokes were more suited to doing the most damage with minimal energy expended.

Duke Fabre dropped to his knees, in between the Count's splayed legs, letting his exhaustion show at last. "Well fought," he conceded. "Though it wasn't enough. With this, Hod has fallen, much like its master."

"Hod's strength is in the will of its people," Count Gardios returned, the fingers of his sword hand twitching as though they wished to reach for the blade that lay fallen a few feet away, its blue steel glinting in the fading light.

"Then that, too, seems to have failed," Duke Fabre answered, making Count Gardios bear his teeth and hiss, like some sort of wild animal. Maybe that's really all men like them were, when stripped of their titles and nobility. If so, Duke Fabre thought, considering the Count's prone posture, the exposed skin above his high collar where his head tipped back, then he would take his victory as such.

He'd not ever considered himself a particularly cruel man, nor had he thought himself capable of or terribly interested in base, barbaric actions. It was true he took pleasure in battle, excelled at it -- surely his rank of Duke was testament enough to that -- but no matter the pleasure he took from it, he was yet a noble, not a barbarian, wasn't he? But then, he'd never conquered an entire island before; never before felt so singularly, personally responsible for a victory, staring down at the body of his fallen foe, his triumph written plain in every cut and bruise he saw there. Surely even someone who didn't thrive in battle as Duke Fabre did would understand the heady rush, the hot surge of pride, the feeling of raw power.

Edging forward on his knees, he spread the Count's legs further, feeling a spike of satisfaction at the pained noise the other man made as his broken leg was moved.

"What do you think you're doing?!" Count Gardios demanded, managing to at least raise himself halfway onto his elbows before they gave out on him again, dropping him heavily into the mud.

"Securing my victory," Duke Fabre answered, reaching to undo the fastening's of the Count's pants, not caring if he were particularly gentle; it wouldn't matter, either way, soon enough. The Count's ability to fight was bleeding out into the ground around him, and Duke Fabre felt it was somehow important, if he were to do this, that it be done while the Count was aware enough to perceive of his conquest.

"You have it already--" The Count protested, breathlessly. "You'd soil it with dishonor?"

"Dishonor for you, perhaps." Duke Fabre grinned nastily and yanked hard on Count Gardios' trousers, dragging them down his hips, being perhaps rougher than was necessary -- every pained noise he managed to draw out of the Count only seemed to make his victory sweeter, only spiked his adrenaline, spurred him on.

Reaching down to unlace his own pants, Duke Fabre bared his teeth in a rather macabre impression of a grin, watching in satisfaction as Count Gardios' eyes flicked down to his cock, then back up to glare at him. "You're filth," the Count spat, but appeared to lack the strength to provide any more resistance than that.

Duke Fabre move closer again, raising Count Gardios' legs, baring his ass and spreading him open, making the other man writhe beneath him, fingers digging into the wet earth. Duke Fabre pressed his cock against the tight ring of muscle there and pushed, grunting with effort; the Count's body was tense and resisting, nearly too tight to be comfortable. He half pulled back and thrust again, and then again, making slow, laboring progress against the dry catch and pull of skin on skin, savoring every half-swallowed noise of pain he managed to wrest out of the Count.

Pausing for breath, his cock finally buried to the hilt in the Count's body, Duke Fabre looked up to take in his victory. Count Gardios' teeth were bared in a grimace, and he glared up at Duke Fabre with breathtaking intensity. Duke Fabre snapped his hips forward again, trying to drive another sound from the body beneath him, and scowled as the Count grit his teeth, but otherwise remained silent.

Somehow, that was less satisfying; Duke Fabre suddenly felt that allowing the Count to remain quiet would cheapen his victory -- perhaps it allowed Count Gardios some small victory of his own, even to the end. Duke Fabre dug his fingers into the underside of the Count's thighs, maddened by the show of resistance -- his conquest of Hod would be complete; he would consume it totally, and leave no doubt of its fall.

Leaning back on his haunches, humming in satisfaction as that shifted his cock inside the Count, Duke Fabre produced a small dagger from his boot, holding it up triumphantly for the Count to see. He took in the brief flash of honest fear in the Count's eyes gleefully -- too far, this was on the edge of going too far -- if he hadn't already -- but stopping, relenting at this point was somehow unthinkable. He wondered if he hadn't somehow come under a status, while not paying attention -- some sort of arte that heightened his bloodlust. He was unsure whether he preferred the thought that his actions were not his own over the thought that he was capable of this level of inhumanity.

Duke Fabre considered the blade in his hand; considered his foe stretched out under him.

Count Gardios licked his lips, eyes flicking back and forth between the blade and Duke Fabre's face. "...Please," he said, quietly, after a long moment of hesitation. The Duke smiled unkindly -- that one word someone felt like true surrender, like he'd obtained true victory at last, and he reveled in the feeling. The rush was tragically short lived, as the Count continued -- voice more confident, more _insolent_ \-- gathering himself like he was going to attempt to push himself up, again. "If you've any honor at all, you won't--"

"Don't presume to tell me what I will not do." Duke Fabre interrupted, surging forward to fist his hand in the Count's jacket, pushing the Count flat back against the earth and managing to drive another twisted sound of pain from him as his legs were pushed still wider apart. Pulling the material taut, Duke Fabre slit the jacket up the center, pulling the pieces apart to expose the Count's stomach and chest, fresh blood welling in shallow cuts left by the knife's path through his clothes.

Still pressed forward awkwardly against Count Gardios' hips, Duke Fabre reached to set the tip of his knife against against the Count's chest, watching carefully. The Count struggled weakly beneath him, his chest heaving, the tip of the blade nicking his skin at each shuddering breath.

"_Please,_" Count Gardios repeated, and Duke Fabre frowned, still not hearing the surrender he wanted in the Count's voice; how could he still hold so stubbornly to his pride, even like this -- defeated, ruined and spread on the ground, with Duke Fabre's cock stuffed up his ass and a blade on his skin?

Duke Fabre grit his teeth and applied a small amount of pressure to the knife, his whole body tingling at how easy it was -- There was the slightest bit of resistance and then the blade was sinking in easily, sharp tip disappearing into the Count's body. The Count opened his mouth on a wordless cry, and before he could ruin the moment with some other moralistic command Duke Fabre drove the blade in further, dragging it in a long swipe down the Count's stomach. Layers of skin and muscle parted smoothly, bright red and clean, visible a bare second before blood welled up, steaming around them as it came in contact with the chill air, spilling out and pooling around the Count's body.

Dropping the knife to the side, Duke Fabre reached forward, sliding his fingers along the cut he'd made, then dipped his fingers inside, relishing the pained howl that produced from the Count as he pulled aside skin and muscle, exposing his abdominal cavity and revealing the organs beneath. Sliding his hand in further, Duke Fabre ran his fingers along soft tissue and organs, still slippery and so hot, even through the leather of his gloves, searching. The Count was beyond coherency at this point, writhing and choking, red-tinged foam at the corners of his mouth. Duke Fabre wondered idly if the other man would choke on his own tongue, or if he already had, but didn't give it any more thought than that as his searching fingers found what he'd been looking for: His own cock, deep inside the Count, pressed tight inside his intestines. Duke Fabre curled his hand around himself, through the thin layer of flesh that surrounded him, and began to stroke. The sensation was nearly too much to bear -- the smooth pull of the Count's body, moving along his cock now in ways it was never meant to; the way Count Gardios ass clutched at Duke Fabre's cock with each shuddering convulsion of his dying body; his choked sounds of pain. Duke Fabre's hands and arms were warm and tacky with blood to the elbows, in contrast to the chill of the ground radiating through his knees, the mud around them stained red and reeking of blood. The intensity of it all -- the sheer overwhelming sensation of the experience drove Duke Fabre higher and faster, finally tipping him over the edge, with him jerking himself off inside the Count's body.

Duke Fabre shuddered to a stop, chest heaving, and carefully pulled out of Count Gardios' body, gone still beneath him. The man was quite dead, eyes staring blankly off into the distance, dirt and blood caked under his nails from his desperate scrabbling at the ground as his body had been torn open.

The moment passed, Duke Fabre grimaced, feeling something like shame, or regret, and a pressing need to cover the body. _Out of respect_, his mind supplied, as he reached forward to close Count Gardios' eyes, but the thought only made him wince. At this point, claiming respect for a foe fallen in battle was perhaps disrespectful in itself. As the Count had said, if he had any honor--

Duke Fabre stood, hurriedly tucking himself back into his pants and straightening his clothing, best as he could. He wouldn't think of it. After a moment of hesitation, he stooped to pick up the Count's discarded sword -- a trophy, but also a reminder -- before turning and striding off towards the rendezvous point. Perhaps he'd be able to face this particular memory some day, but for now, he only wanted to get as far away from what he'd done as he could.


End file.
